For the love of writing

It seems I’ve always written letters and journals. My very first journal composed after Grade 3 camp where I cut out small pieces of ruled paper, stapling them together roughly and filling them with notes about the friendships between the girls in my class. As the years followed I fell in and out of love with my journals, spending hours pouring my emotions out on the page. I scoured bookshops for that fresh, perfect new journal. Some were bought for me as gifts, others I saved hard for, like the soft red leather bound journal from Venice available only at a boutique hand-made paper store hidden in one of Melbourne’s laneways. Each time I opened the leather cord binding the book I was taken back to classical antiquity. But that was later in life. A lot of my writing was ho hum penning daily thoughts but still felt essential.

One of my girlfriends recently explained how she burnt years of journals in a backyard bonfire. She worried that when she died people would learn her many secrets. I had mixed feelings when I heard that wondering if I could also so easily destroy the evidence of my passion. So many hours spent battling with thoughts on each page. I quickly decided there was no way I could burn my cherished journals yet also felt I didn’t want anyone reading them once I also passed on.

Now that I’ve had a son would I want him reading the many stories of lost loves and the frustration of being in a family of unhappy relationships? Then there were also the joys and excitement recorded in detail of discovering my true purpose in life. The rise of our successful business and the creative partnership of more than 15 years with my brother which continues strongly into the future, when so many other companies failed. There were examples of true grit and determination to follow your dreams against all odds and importantly take great risks when others told you to tread the safe path. Would my journals show a balanced view of my life?

It’s only in the past few months that I have begun writing on a computer, previously favouring my beautiful Mont Blanc pen, a gift from my Father, and classic A4 black Moleskin notebook. The feel of the pen as it glides across the page is a joy I will never surrender. A lost art that I look forward to sharing with my son. I’m uncertain why I’ve started typing on the computer recently; efficiency perhaps? The advantage of writing by hand always that you rarely return to edit and it stays on the page unshared for eternity. That may well be the answer. Only now have I begun to share my thoughts. After years of encouragement it was one friend that gave me the final push. Why did I listen to him at this point in time? Could it be that now finally my story was worthy to share.


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